Day 7 - Memphis (Pt 1)

It's taken me some time to write about Day 7, about the time I spent in Memphis, because I experienced so much there and I've been trying to get settled and adjusted to Ragmar's Kingdom. And what a lovely kingdom it is. After sleeping deeply for a full 8-9 hours (the best sleep I've had in weeks!), I awoke this morning to Ragmar's voice in the kitchen, telling me that I should join him and his friends at the Gathering. I climbed out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. Ragmar chuckled as I appeared sleepy-eyed and hair askew in my pjs and offered me some tea. A young, fresh-skinned White boy named Atlas said good morning to me and gave me a hug. We had some fresh goat cheese and honey on Texas toast for breakfast and visited while I put the dishes away.

So, now, Memphis...

Memphis is not just Graceland. In fact, I didn't even bother to go. I drove by it when I entered the city because I had booked a room close to it, thinking that I would visit. The idea of Graceland was exciting when I was in LA, but after being inundated with Elvis memorabilia at the overpriced motel I stayed at, viewing the imposing white Colonial Revival mansion on the hill festooned with garish colored lights and debating whether I should pay the $30 entrance fee that the locals joke "support Priscilla and Lisa Marie," I decided not to. I had seen enough of Graceland. Maybe I'll go if I visit Memphis another time.


Instead, I wanted to see other parts of Memphis, thinking that I might only have less than a day there. The night I arrived, I made my way to Beale Street--the home of the Memphis Blues. I called ahead to B.B. King's Blues Club to ask if they were still open. It was Sunday and nearly 11:00pm. I spoke to very helpful woman who called me "Ma'am" in every sentence she uttered and I told her I was a single woman traveling alone and would it be safe for me to go to Beale Street by myself.

"Oh yes, ma'am."
"I won't have any trouble?"
"Oh no, ma'am, there's policemen at every corner. And it's Sunday, ma'am, there's probably eleven people or so on the street right now."

I felt safer after speaking with her and drove the fifteen or twenty minutes in a light shower to Beale Street. A surge of excitement built in me as I drove past the Mississippi River and turned into the neon lights and music blaring into the streets. A one-block area is closed off to motorists and throbs with the energy from the lights and loud music. I found parking in a structure not far away and wandered around, looking for a good juke joint. Although the streets were empty, many places were still open and filled with people: a large, high-ceilinged pub-like place was doing a karaoke night, another club that looked two or three stories high blasted mainstream hip hop, a tiny little local watering hole that the B.B. King waitress recommended I go to was littered with tough-looking pierced and tattooed guys. I wandered into a smaller bar where a live blues band was playing--a trio of three older Black men playing some hard, dirty blues. The lead singer's deep, hearty voice poured into the mike and filled the bar, eliciting screeches and shouts from the drunk tourists who were shoulder to shoulder and barstool to barstool. I ordered a pint of Blue Moon (which they gave me in a huge 32 oz plastic cup) and found a table by myself after a group left. After a few minutes of taking lots of pictures and finding my shoulders and neck loosening to the sounds of The Dr. Feelgood Potts Band, two clean-cut White men approached the table and asked if they could sit with me. They seemed nice, one of them was very good-looking, and the good-looking guy pulled up the chair next to me. We discovered we were all from California and talked about out travels to Memphis. They were finance brokers on a boys outing for the NASCAR race in Taladega. I talked a little about stocks and finances (the little that I know!) with the other guy and about food and the beauty of Northern Cali with the cute one. They bought me a drink. We talked some more, then the bar closed down and the bouncer said I could take my drink with me, so we toddled around for a bit and then they walked me to my car and we said goodbye.

The next day I went to the Civil Rights Museum and spent the afternoon wandering the exhibition and sitting on the curb across from the motel room where Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. I sat there and could only stare at the balcony, sobered by the weight and legacy of history before me. My time there was well spent, but it deserves its own blog entry. For now, I'm needing a walk and some company. I'm going to walk the two miles to the Gathering and join Ragmar and his friends.